


with wings so bent I can barely fly

by sElkieNight60



Series: Dawn Breaks Through the Window [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bat Fam, Bat Family, Bat Family Feels, Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Comfort/Angst, DaddyBats, Depressed Dick Grayson, Depression, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Electrocution, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Suicide, No editing we die like mne, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parent Bruce Wayne, Protective Bruce Wayne, Se.N, Suicidal Thoughts, bat dad, batfam, dad!bats, protective bat brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 18:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20475881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: Dick doesn't recognize the apathy for what it really is.





	with wings so bent I can barely fly

**Author's Note:**

> It's a depression fic, my dudes. Take the warnings seriously. I wrote this after watching Titans (2018) because SOMEBODY has some pretty A+ parenting in that show (guess who) and SOMEBODY (Dick) needed to suffer some more for my own catharsis. (It is Angst with a Happy Ending tho).
> 
> That being said, it's pretty unedited and i'm about to drop dead with fatigue. If you spot any TENSE mistakes, I would be grateful if you pointed them out. Join me in the comments if you want to rant about Bruce's A+ parenting :D
> 
> Enjoy!

_Dick stopped looking in the mirror weeks ago, unable to stand the sight of such a pathetic, broken bird with wings so bent he could barely fly._

_ _ _ _

Shuffling his feet and staring at the floorboards with unseeing eyes, Dick feels numb and drained with Bruce standing less than five feet away, speaking with a tone so brittle it might as well be spring ice.

“_Are you listening to me, Dick?_” The man snaps, voice full of fire and ice, the directness of it making him wonder if he's missed something.

Dick knows he's expected to respond―_he has to say something__―_but when he opens his mouth to speak, nothing comes out, so he settles for a shaky nod instead. It's embarrassing that he can feel tears pooling behind his eyes, but he doesn't dare reach a hand up to wipe them away and betray the fact that he's _not _made of steel, simply of flesh.

Bruce doesn't get it.

Bruce never gets it.

Dick only jumped in front of that gun because it had been aimed at Batman, and he _knows_ he was lucky, fortunate that the gunman had simply atrocious marksmanship, but Bruce had seen his stunt and it was too late to pretend he hadn't been reckless.

Bruce's cold tone continues, but only snippets of it float past Dick's ear; _“__―__ridiculous, reckless__―__!” “__―__could have died__―__” “__―_you _of all people__―__” “__―__behaviour un__befitting and unlike__―__”_

Dick knows he deserves this. He is the oldest, he's supposed to be the _responsible _one. That's why Bruce goes down so hard on him when he makes a mistake, or breaks a rule, or accidentally slides a toe over the line… But it still hurts like he's taking punches, and he's already taken a few of those tonight.

It takes him longer than it probably should to realise when Bruce isn't speaking anymore. Dick doesn't look up though, he just shivers – out of nervousness or the cold or something else entirely, he's not sure.

When a frozen, expectant silence settles between them, Dick suddenly wants Bruce to go back to his icy wrath. Perhaps it is cathartic, or maybe it just fuels his knowledge that he was such an _awful _sidekick that Batman had to replace him not _once_, not _twice, _but _three_ _times_. It wouldn't matter to Bruce if he promised to do better next time, because Dick's already made that promise and broken it over and over again, swearing that _next time_, next time will be different. He doesn't make that promise now, he knows this is the best he's got. It doesn't matter if he puts in 110% every time, because Jason is just naturally a better fighter than him, Tim's smarter, and Damian has that same sixth sense Batman does. Dick might have been the first Robin, but he was always the _worst _Robin.

It's all he can do to just stand there in the middle of the room, clenching and unclenching his fists, staring at his feet and willing himself not to cry because, _damn it_, he's too old to spill tears for being told off.

The heavy weight of Bruce's stare lingers on him, but he bites his tongue and waits for something. Dismissal? More anger? Whatever it is, Dick braces for it, stomach curling and preparing for whatever backhanded words Bruce will whip off his tongue. God, he wants to curl up and die. Maybe if the gunman had got him, Bruce wouldn't have to chastise him now for being such a lost cause.

_Failure, failure, failure, _his brain supplies, a chant repeating endlessly as though it's a record stuck on a loop.

In his chest, his heart gives one painful thump, and then he hears― “Are you going to say something?” Bruce's words aren't sharp anymore, but they're still cold.

“Sorry.” It falls off his tongue automatically, because he's said it so many times it's become his default word. Instead of greeting people with a 'hello' he should probably just start by apologising, at least then they wouldn't hold him to any expectations and be let down by Dick's inability to fulfil them.

“That's it?” Bruce asks, sounding genuinely astounded. Dick feels his face do a weird flinch.

What… what else is there to say? What does Bruce _want _him to say? He'd say anything if he only knew what it was the man wanted to hear. Instead, he opens and closes his mouth a few times and then ends up settling on a shrug. At this point he thinks he really wouldn't mind being tortured by The Joker if he could trade it for this conversation, if one could even call it that.

Bruce sighs, sagging into a chair, and then, “Why did you do it, Dick?”

This is an act, a ruse, an attempt to get Dick to drop his guard. He doesn't. If he drops his guard any more those tears are going to fall, but Bruce sounds genuinely defeated and tired. It makes Dick feel guilty. _He _did this, he's the reason that Bruce sounds that way.

“He had a gun pointed at you,” he says. It's safe to state the facts. “I didn't even think…” _a lie_, “I just moved.”

There's another moment of tense silence where Dick knows that, if he looks up, Bruce's face will be crinkled in that thoughtful frown or pinched in that unreadable expression.

“…alright.” Bruce says after another minute, all traces of tiredness and defeat gone from his voice. Dick had known it was a ruse. He hears the man stand and a second later feels warm arms wrapping around his torso, it startles Dick enough that he tenses with another poorly concealed flinch. Bruce doesn't seem to notice though, just wraps him up into a tight hug and presses his lips to Dick's hair.

“Just promise me you won't do something so reckless as that again,” he orders as he squeezes briefly. “Promise.”

He doesn't know why Bruce makes him promise such a thing, he always breaks his promises and Bruce should know that by now, but he does it anyway and the subtle lines of tension melt from the older man's body.

“I won't,” he says, the lie spilling like poison from his lips. “I promise.”

_ _ _ _

The next time the apathy seeps into his skin is, strangely, after a successful mission when everybody is laughing at some wisecrack joke Tim made. They are all enjoying their flight through the early morning hours back to the manor where Alfred is waiting for them with hot cocoa, congratulating each other on a job well done when Dick unwittingly shatters the moment.

Dick sees his line snap and he drops like a paperweight, plummeting for the ground, time slowing to an almost grinding halt the moment the taut line breaks.

Craning his neck up he sees his family, all of them going for him even though he knows well that he is out of their reach, and although the wind is rushing past his ears, he can see his name forming on each of their lips as he drops.

Reaching around himself, Dick goes for the back-up line he keeps on his person, the little thing so old that it still has a little Robin insignia on it. For half a second he forgets that he's falling in favour of just staring at the little yellow _R _inscribed just below the barrel. Dick remembers that he used to be so proud of that little yellow R once. It made him feel important, not just to Gotham but to Bruce.

Then, before he has time to aim the line and pull the trigger and haul himself back up to where his family is waiting for him, he hears a rumbling noise of panic and feels a strong arm circle his waist, jerking him out of his free-fall and forcing his trajectory upwards.

Dick doesn't have to look to know who it is, and he doesn't have to hear the gravel in Bruce's voice to know the man is furious with him, he can feel it instinctively through the tense muscles holding him like a vice.

Batman deposits them on the roof of a building and suddenly, Dick inhales for what feels like the first time ever, feeling the cool night air rush into his lungs like he's just been badly winded. Jason, Tim and Damian are already waiting, making Dick question just how long he spent falling.

“Are you alright?” It's Tim who steps forward first, his hands fluttering in the air uselessly as he critically examines Dick for any injuries and then stares as though trying to decipher whether or not his brother has actually sustained a head injury.

Dick lets out a breathless chuckle, but it elicits a rather disturbed look from all three of them. They stare at him as though he's grown a second head.

“I'm fine, sorry.” It's too blasé, apparently.

Jason explodes, “The _hell _you are!” He stomps closer, gripping Dick's shoulders with a painful grasp. Dick knows there will be bruises from Jason's vice hold but he can't bring himself to care right now. “What kind of stunt show was that!?”

Dick's shoulders shrug of their own volition, “My line snapped.” He states plainly.

“So you thought you'd let the ground make you a pancake?” Jason goes for the back-up line, snatching it right out of Dick's hand and bringing it up to give a closer inspection. “Does this thing even work? When was the last time you checked your gear?”

Bruce cuts him off. “Enough,” he barks at Jason, resting a heavy hand on Dick's shoulder, the weight of it like a ton of bricks. “We're going home. We'll talk about this there.” The words suddenly make Dick feel as though the bricks have been tossed into Gotham harbour and he's gone overboard with them.

Damian jumps first, then Tim and then Jason, who gives Dick a disgusted look and shakes his head before following suit. Bruce makes him go next, but whatever trust the man had shown him before is gone now―he sticks right beside Dick for the entire way home, watching like a hawk.

Dick knows the lecture is coming, he can feel it like a stone settling in his stomach when Alfred comes down to greet them and Bruce holds him back, stopping him from following his brothers upstairs.

“What happened tonight?” Bruce asks, rounding on him; a leading question heading straight for an interrogation, his hands resting upon his hips as he towers over Dick. His voice is dangerously cold, the same tone and timbre he uses on mob bosses who think they're big fish.

Dick goes the safe bet, “My line snapped.” He repeats.

Out of nowhere Bruce swings his fist back and it connects with the wall with a bang, startling Dick into direct eye contact before he can think better of it.

“Don't play dumb with me, Dick!” Bruce growls, his voice rising in decibels. “I watched you fall thirty feet before I realised you weren't going to pull your back-up line.”

“I was!” Dick insists, clenching his fists and sending Bruce a challenging look.

“Then why the hell didn't you?” Bruce glowers back. “Or what, did you want to see how close you could get? Playing chicken with the side-walk, huh? Is that it?”

“It's not like that…”

“Then explain.”

“I can't.”

Dick fidgets, shifting from one foot to the other as Bruce works his jaw, possibly biting back whatever it is he truly wants to say. Dick wishes he would just say it.

“I don't want to bench you,” Bruce says instead, the anger melting back into cool control. “Because I don't think that would help and I'm not sure I could stop you from going out anyway―” It's big of him to admit that, if somewhat surprising. “―But I'm worried about you. I need you to talk to me, tell me what is going on with you. First the gunman incident and now this… Dick, you know you can come to me about anything, right?” Bruce is starting to sound a little like he's pleading now.

“It… it was an accident,” Dick lies through whispered words, hoping Bruce will bite the bait. After all, stuffing strong emotions down so deep the sun will never see them and dealing with this kind of shit behind closed doors is what their family does, right?

“I just… I didn't think, Bruce. I was being stupid, my head wasn't in it. The line snapping surprised me, you know? I just didn't react fast enough.”

Bruce nods, still not looking fully convinced as he crosses the distance between them, hooks a finger under Dick's chin, and tilts it until their eyes meet.

“Fine,” he says sternly, hooking his thumb around as well and making it harder for Dick to shake his grip off. “Whatever is going on with you, I'll let you sort it out. You're an adult, you can deal with these problems on your own.” The grip tightens and Bruce searches his eyes for something, though Dick knows not what, as he says, “But the _second _I see this sort of reckless behaviour from you again, you're off the team. No excuses. Get your act together.”

“Yes, sir.” He tries to nod, but is stopped short by Bruce's hold.

The older man releases him and takes a step backwards, leaving Dick with the odd sensation that he's broken something valuable and no amount of money can replace what is now gone.

It's only the next day that he discovers _e__veryone_ is mad at him. They're glaring, staring, glowering and Dick feels like he shouldn't have come down for breakfast when they all stop talking as he enters the room.

“Good morning?” He tries, going for a smile but feeling as though he probably ended with a grimace. Alfred is the only reply he receives.

“Good morning, Master Richard,” he smiles politely, filling Dick's tea cup with earl grey. “Scrambled eggs?”

Dick's heart feels heavy as he looks around the table, several pairs of eyes all darting off in different directions, all trying to pretend they weren't boring holes in Dick just seconds ago.

“Yes, please,” he replies, laying the napkin across his lap and reaching for his steaming tea. “Thank you, Alfred.”

The old butler inclines his head and gives Dick a gentle smile before taking his leave.

Dick clears his throat. “I'm sorry,” he begins, the eyes drawing to him immediately. “I never said that last night and I owe you all an apology for my recklessness. Things could have gone very differently, I'm sorry for scaring you.”

There's a beat of silence that pulsates throughout the room, but it's little Damian who forgives him first.

“I wasn't scared,” he sniffs. “Begrudgingly, I will admit that you can handle yourself out there, Grayson.”

Dick pastes on a beaming smile, every ounce of it fake, but it fools the younger boy who unknowingly brightens at the sight of it. It's enough to at least partially fool the rest of his family too. Tim relaxes in his seat and Jason lets out a huff that Dick's not sure the guy knew he was holding in. Bruce just squints at him and―_if it's not just his imagination_―Dick thinks he sees a hint of relief behind those dark irises.

_ _ _ _

It's barely a week later that Dick breaks his promise again by practically _letting_ himself get captured―sprinting into the situation with less than no information other than the fact that Jason has found some twisted pharmaceuticals company and has gone after the entire organisation without back-up.

All that runs through Dick's mind is that his baby-brother is going to get himself killed and Dick cannot not let that happen. So he bolts in without a plan, Tim and Damian hot on his heels. Together they take out every masked figure and lab-coated _'doctor'_ they see.

At some point though, everything starts to go pear-shaped; the comm goes down and they get separated. Dick is pressing his fingers into his ear, trying to hear something other than static across the line, yelling for Jason, for Tim, for Damian, when something heavy connects with the back of his head and he's out before he hits the concrete.

When he wakes up, it's to the sensation of frozen water gushing over his person.

With a gasp he jerks sideways, but his wrists don't move the way he wants them too; they're secured, bound in cuffs and chains that are hooked to the ceiling.

“So, the bat-brats thought they'd have a family outing, huh?” A nasally, rasping tone fills Dick's ears, an unknown voice that brooks no room for mercy. “My, my, what an honour! My facility! I must say, I'm pleasantly surprised that they parted here without you, such a generous gift for me.”

Dick feels the breeze across his chest and he looks down to note that they've stripped him from his uniform, leaving him naked as the day he was born. In the cold room―aided by the ice-water they'd poured over his head―shivers wrack his body, adrenaline flooding him as his mind races, eyes searching for an exit and wrists tugging furiously at the chains until he sees crimson trickling down his arms.

“Now, now,” laughs the voice, a man, Dick thinks, but can't be sure. “You're my precious test-subject. We can't have you hurting yourself before the fun begins now, can we?”

The door his eyes have settled on swings open a moment later with a metallic screech as the old hinges protest, a white-coated figure with a surgical mask comes through wheeling a tray, several different instruments laid out upon it. The figure―another man, Dick believes, by the way he moves―reaches for the syringe, filled with a bright purple liquid.

“What is that?” he asks, the words coming out slightly slurred―he thinks he might have a concussion. Dick tries to keep the fear out of his voice, attempts to put himself in the head-space for whatever is about to come next, but he's not entirely successful, because a whimper claws its way out of his throat when the lab-coat injects the purple substance into his arm.

“Hush, hush,” says the disembodied voice, one that's not coming from the lab-coat, the nasal voice sounding almost gleeful now. “That's just a little somethin' to get the party started, my dear boy.”

Another lab-coat walks into the room, a woman this time, whilst the other begins hooking him up to something―a machine, Dick guesses with a sinking feeling.

“What did you give me?” his voice sounds hollow and tinny to his ears, and he strains against the restraints in another futile attempt to break free.

“It's my own concoction,” preens the voice. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that, you know. Up until recently, however, it did tend to leave our patients… well. Fortunately, we've hammered out those kinks now. These days I'm more interested in its properties as a pain enhancer, and you, my boy, are about to get on a once-in-a-lifetime fun-ride. I'm sure you'll give us some interesting data, having been trained by Batman and all. I hear you Robin boys are very good at resisting torture, but that's not quite what I'm aiming for today, I'm afraid. I'm just interested in finding out how much you can tolerate before your heart stops. I'm sure you'll make for a fascinating case study.”

Dick hears the machine behind him begin to whir and he chokes on a half-formed sob, the ground swimming in front of him as whatever was in that purple liquid starts to make his vision to tunnel.

The first bolt of electricity strikes through him like a white hot iron, a blazing pain that zaps across every vein and every muscle without repentance. The scream that escapes his mouth doesn't even sound like him, he can't recognise it amongst the fire consuming every capillary.

It doesn't stop, though, it only gets worse. Dick's heart is hammering a mile a minute, like a startled race-horse bolting for the finish line, andevery now and again he will register the sound of the nasally voice telling whomever to up the voltage, dreading each click of the dial.

By the time he's begging Dick doesn't know up from down, he's not even sure how old he is or even the sound of his own name. “_Please_,” he whispers hoarsely, his voice-box fried. “_Please, just… just __finish it__.”_

Dick doesn't get a verbal reply, but the lab-coat gives him one last electrifying jolt by way of and the scream rips out of his throat, clawing upwards and shredding his voice-box one last time.

With Dick's head dropped and the fact that he's fading in and out of consciousness anyway, he doesn't see the door slam open and hit the back wall with such force that it leaves a dent, or feel the chains around his wrist being undone, nor register the fact that someone has lowered him to the cold, damp floor. All he knows is that his body is not his own, it betrays his attempts to curl into himself as his muscles spasm wildly from the aftershocks.

_Bruce might disown __me__ after this_, he thinks; he broke his promise, he was reckless. Dick's _supposed_ to be the _responsible _one, the one to keep them all safe. Fuck. It would probably be for the best if he did die from this. It would be better than facing Batman's wrath again for the third time in as many weeks. He's not going to get better at being a Robin, he never deserved the title anyway. It is probably a good thing that Bruce took it from him and gave it to a more worthy successor, he never proved himself worthy of it and now, he never will. At least Bruce saw that ahead of time and turned his attention to someone more able to take on the mantle, someone who did it with the ease of breathing.

“_I'm not going to disown you, Dick…”_ he hears from somewhere, his imagination probably. He wishes he could believe in its optimism. _“… just breathe, chum. It's gonna be okay.”_

Except it _won't _be okay, his imagination isn't deluding anyone. On the one hand, deep down, he half prays his brothers don't come back for him, he needs them to be safe and they won't be if they come back to this place and risk their necks just for him.

On the other is the knowledge that _they left him here in the first place… _

No. That wasn't their fault, it wasn't anybody's fault except for his own; _the weakest link, the worst Robin, _he reminds himself.

Then, out of nowhere he feels a weight on his chest, followed by loud voices saying sentences he can't quite make out, only words here and there; “―_blankets!__―__” “__―__fever spiking__―__” “__―delirious, doesn't know what he's saying―” “―adrenaline, Jason, on the bench―” “―no―” “―Damian, get out of the _way!―_” “―cardiac arrest―”“―breathe, Dick, breathe―”_

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, the weight on his chest moves and is then gone entirely, and Dick's breathing eases. The pain suddenly ceases and he feels himself falling into the cocooning quiet of the dark abyss, sinking, sinking, sinking, until he isn't aware of anything anymore.

_ _ _ _

Underneath the familiar blankets of his childhood bed is where Dick finds himself when he rises from unconsciousness, the aches immediately making themselves known the moment he breeches the surface of the waking world.

There's no one in the room with him, he notes, turning his head to inspect the empty space, but the fact that he's here means that someone came back for him. Somehow, the thought doesn't inspire levity in his chest, it only makes the self-hatred double down on him all the faster. It means someone saw him break, someone knows without doubt he's weak.

What he doesn't immediately register is his bedroom door, wide open. This fact only comes to light when Dick hears soft, socked feet on the hallway runner outside.

It turns out to be the last person he's expecting; it's Bruce.

The worlds greatest detective notices his consciousness the moment he steps through the entrance, dark eyes locking with Dick's own deep blue, a series of emotions passing behind them more quickly that Dick can read.

“Dick,” he says, stalling by the door, hesitating for one second before crossing to the bed and settling himself comfortably on the side. “Are you with me?”

The lines on his face read relief as he brushes the sweaty bangs out of Dick's eyes with a wandering palm, checking his temperature as he goes.

Dick grunts as he hoists himself up, then breathes, “Yeah. What― what happened?”

Pain flashes past Bruce's pupils and there's too much of it there for him to conceal fully, channelling the strong emotion by reaching for Dick's hand and gripping it tight, as though he's afraid Dick will fade away. “You don't remember?” _He_ put that pain there.

Dick furrows his brow as he thinks. “He… he said I would make a fun case study…” he exhales, a shudder running down his spine. “I'm sorry.”

Bruce squeezes his hand. “No,” he says. “Don't do that. Don't apologise.”

“It's my fault,” he argues softly before his self-control can stop him from saying something he might regret. His head feels fuzzy still. “I was reckless again.” _God, what if it hadn't been him._

“Hey,” Bruce barks sharply, ordering Dick to look him in the eye before he continues. “I don't care about that right now.”

“I'm sorry,” he says again, brokenly. “I'm sorry.”

“Dick…” there's an edge of… panic, maybe? “Chum, it's alright. You're okay, it's okay.”

Before Dick can even stop to think about what he's saying, it spills over all at once, leaking out of him like toxic waste.

“It's not okay,” he replies. “I let you down, _again_. I'm a _failure_. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I know I was mad when Jason came along and replaced me as Robin, Bruce, but you were right. You've always been right, you saw it well before I did― I never deserved the mantle of Robin.”

Bruce closes his eyes and brings Dick's clutched hand up to his forehead, sighing.

“_No_,” he whispers, crumbling like a castle of sand as he lowers it, releasing it so he can wrap an arm around Dick almost roughly. “No, Dickie, you're not a failure. _Never_. Is that what you think? Is that how I sound to you?”

Dick shakes his head, but the movement prompts a single hot tear to roll down his cheek and the rest silently follow suit. He doesn't trust his voice right now, so he lamely accepts the one armed hug in lieu.

“_Oh chum,” _he carries on a moment later, when Dick stays stubbornly silent, as though some revelation has only just dawned on Bruce. “Why didn't you say something sooner?”

A wet hiccup escapes Dick. “I'm sorry.” Is all he manages to say.

Bruce smooths down the back of his hair and shushes him softly, allowing Dick to soil his shirt with salty tears. “It's alright,” he consoles. “It's not your fault.”

They stay like that for a long time, until Dick has all but cried himself out. It's only when the tiny hiccups stop that Bruce releases him, pulling back, but only to stare into Dick's red-rimmed eyes. The silence lingers so long that it surprises him when Bruce breaks it, speaking softly as he wipes away the lingering remains of tear-tracks.

“Just so you know,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to Dick's brow. “You will _always _be my little Robin. I know you don't think it right now, but you deserved that title more than anyone.”

_ _ _ _

Bruce sets him up with therapy and, slowly, things do start to get better. Twice weekly appointments, accompanied by Bruce to and from, with a cup of hot cocoa always waiting for him at home, courtesy of Alfred.

For a while afterwards his brothers tread on eggshells around him, elbowing each other harshly when one of them says something that they think might set him off, but fortunately, the day he manages to find a genuine smile is the day that they all see it. It's not much, but there's a noticeable change of atmosphere after that.

They're still careful though, Dick's near death experienced having rocked Wayne manor in a way that has left them all a little shaken. Damian nearly rips his head off when Dick accidentally burns himself on the kettle making tea and, with the alarm sounded, Jason comes in displaying his anxiety with barbs and fussing, followed hastily by Tim who's carrying a med-kit and an overly stern expression that resembles Bruce a little _too _much.

When Dick is graciously granted permission to go out on patrol again (one whole month later), all of them come. Maybe it might have felt a little smothering if Dick had been anyone else, but to him, it doesn't feel that way. It just feels like his entire family has come together, as though they are each a strand in a patchwork blanket, protecting him from the darkness where his own shadow lurks as it waits for an opportunity that Dick desperately tries not to give. It's easier with his family around.

It's not a linear journey. There are some days that he can barely stand himself and he wonders why they bother with him, nights where he lies awake thinking they would have all been better off if he didn't exist anymore, and even though these thoughts chase each other around his head like a cat and dog, he persists with taking one step at a time. Dick works with his therapist, speaks with Bruce when he recognises himself spiralling and trusts his brothers to catch him when he falls.

_ _ _ _

_It's a long time before he can look at himself in the mirror and not see a pathetic, broken bird, but he's not alone when that day comes._


End file.
